This evening, I'm walking the pup rather late, because Bubba and I were chowing down and drinking too much wine and talking about our various friends and the never-ending dialogue about spirituality. (Btw, she says my interpretation of her thoughts on straight-queer gal relationships is incorrect: She is *not* suggesting repression. But, in splitting hairs, we find we have different definitions of "attraction." So therein lies the rub.)
So perhaps my intoxication has *something* to do with how I interpreted this situation I'm about to describe, but perhaps ... not.
Fridays, I take my cello lesson, right? And Fridays, me being a single, non-dating (except for the thankfully rare errant and horrifying blind date) cello-learning lesbian, I tend to spend my evenings at home practicing what I've learned.
I usually kick this up sometime between 7 (after I've woken from my *nap* and taken the pup for his evening stroll) and 9 or so, after which I think perhaps I ought not play on accounts the cello is loud when played correctly. Not that it matters one good shit to my neighbors, as this is regarded as "live-work" space and we all seem to have an anything-goes attitude about noise. So sometimes, I do practice as late as 11 or so.
But, generally, it's between 7 and 9 in the evening, except for the nights I'm in school, that the neighborhood is treated to my renditions of such classics as "Mary Had a Little Lamb," "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star," "Ode to Joy" and something to which all listeners have remarked, "That sounds like Frere Jacques, but there's something wrong with it."
So, back to my evening walk with the pup.... I'm walking up to the entrance of my building when I notice a note posted in the window of the Thai restaurant that's immediately beneath my loft. It says: "We are proud to announce that we will be offering live music every Friday betwen 7 and 9 p.m."
I'm a narcissist, right? Diagnosable, even! Because what I think is, Uh-oh, this guy's not piggy-backing on my cello practice, is he? Because I *know* they can hear me playing, especially the people who eat outside.
It's not until considerably later that I think: Hey. Maybe he's actually trying to drown me out. ... Well, fuck him. My D-scales in thirds aren't *that* bad!"
So, henceforth, Friday nights in this little corner of town will be like dueling banjos. Whatever the hell music Chin's got going in his restaurant downstairs (if, in fact, he's not mooching off my cello work) is going to be intermingling with my cello practice. How delightful for those who dine outside....
I'm hoping, of course, that I will still be able to *hear* my cello -- or my TV, for that matter. But whatever. It's all good. At least, I no longer need to set my alarm to ensure I wake up from my nap by 7 p.m. And maybe the music will be good. Maybe, dueling with my cello, it will be like the devil went down to Georgia.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Saturday, June 03, 2006
It takes two to tango
Recently, Dr. M, Bubba and I engaged in a conversation about whether there is a "protocol" for relationships between lesbians and straight girls. Bubba had a rather involved answer that seemed to focus mainly on repressing feelings of attraction for the "wrong" kind of girl. (Granted, Bubba did not use the word "repress;" that is my own interpretation of what she said, given that I have a long and solid history of engaging in just the behavior she described.)
So I have a lot of sympathy for that perspective, but I've come to believe that it's perfectly fine to be attracted to someone, regardless of their sex or sexual orientation -- even if the object of one's attraction happens to be a friend. Repression of such feelings never seems to do anything but harm. If you're going to employ the massive psychological powers of repression for something, it should be the memory of a traumatic event (which can include seeing the bare midriff of women in their 70s who are wearing inappropriately sexual clothing in the grocery store -- which happened to me the other week and I'm *still* suffering). But why use it for the blessed goodness of harmless sexual attraction?
Ulitmately, I don't think there are any special protocals, per se, that differ for friendships between queer and straight gals. That's because I think all "healthy" relationships have at their foundation the same factors: an experience of *mutuality* between the individuals in the relationship and the habitual practice of showing *respect* for each other. This describes not just intimate relationships but friendships, as well. Either you both agree you're acquaintances/ friends/ lovers/ spouses/ tango partners (tango being at the *top* of the hierarchy) and you treat each other with respect, or you've got problems.
(And, yes, for those who know a bit more about my personal life than I describe on this blaaahhg, I am aware of a so-called "friendship" in my life that does not meet those requirements, and I am heeding your warnings about that. Thank you.)
That said, I found myself very curious about Dr. M's question about protocol. Knowing she claims never to have an original thought -- that every idea passing through her brain is either sourced from "Friends," "The Sopranos," or her obsessive relationship with "Sixteen Candles," -- I wondered what was out there on the Internet about this issue.
There wasn't much. But there was the following, which I found exceptionally amusing -- it being a synthesis of a lesbian-straight gal friendship gone awry and TELEVISION. I totally copied it from a web site. Without further adieu, I bring you:
12 Golden Rules for a Lesbian Story
While these rules were originally derived from German soaps and weeklies, I have had to realize that many of them apply to American shows as well, and also to mainstream movies, Fassbinder films, and so on. Dullness and ignorance seem to be universal, don't they?
The more of these rules you follow, the more surprising and successful your little lesbian interlude will be. Minor deviations are permissible, but departing from the course too much might be too demanding on your intellectual abilities, or it could even shatter your entire view of life.
I. Initial position
Don't even dare to think that two single women could simply fall in love with one another, or that two women who have always favored only (or also) women could, or even two single women who happen to prefer women! No, the only possible initial position is the following one: One of the two favors women. The "real" lesbian, you might say. In the following, we shall call her "The Lesbian".
II. Constellations
The other woman is heterosexual, and in the history of your soap opera, drama show, or movies, there should have been absolutely no clue at all that she has ever contemplated having a relationship with a woman. Remember: Long-term preparation of a switch of emotional and sexual orientation is utterly unnecessary!
We recommend that the straight woman maintain a long-term, intact relationship (with a man, naturally). The Lesbian, however, is usually single.
III. Social Life
Your lesbian protagonist, as well as your short-term lesbian couple, do not entertain friendships with other gay people, nor do they ever feel the need to attend a gay club, or coming-out group, or alternative lifestyle center, or the like, or if they do, this may only be mentioned in dialogue, never ever shown! They live exactly like straight people, except for having sex with women instead of men.
Obviously, exposing viewers to a whole different culture might lead to severe brain damage or spontaneous combustion.
IV. The drama may begin
Enter: The Lesbian. The two women get to know one another and become friends.
V. The inevitable course of events
The Lesbian falls in love with the straight woman. Watch out: It may never, ever be the other way around, or even mutual! It is The Lesbian who takes the initiative, anything else would be in contradiction to numerous laws of nature.
VI. The confession
Please note: You may skip this item and the next two and move straight on to # 9, so that The Lesbian will attack without prior warning.
The Lesbian declares her love. This confession may also be expressed nonverbally. The preferred method is so dominant that it deserves a rule of its own:
VII. The surprise kiss
Especially strict rules apply here. The s. k. is principally initiated by The Lesbian. It is strategically placed at the end of an episode, and it is followed by a reaction on the part of the straight woman that ranges between astonished embarrassment, complete surprise and all-out horror.
We can distinguish two major forms of the surprise kiss:
a) S.k. light: i.e. a short version, usually with lips closed, and gentle to rigorous.
b) S.k., sugar-added: passionate, mostly extended smooching (rendering the straight woman's reaction afterwards especially convincing).
UCM interrupts: As a woman who's dated a few "straight" girls in my life, I should note something here. The "surprise kiss" actually *always* comes from the straight girl. And the shit always blows my mind. But as the author of this piece notes up front, presenting this story in any other way may challenge the viewer's intellectual capabilities. That said, I return us to the little soap opera unfolding here.
VIII. Limits
The object of her desires is shocked, naturally. She explains convincingly that she never, ever thought of another woman THAT WAY, that she wants to be "just friends", and that she loves her boyfriend, respectively her husband, deeply.
IX. By all means
Now there are two possibilities:
a) The Lesbian tries to forget the straight woman, and she wants to be "sensible", but of course her emotions are too strong for that, and she can't get her mind off her. – But why be so subtle?
b) The Lesbian keeps on making passes. In order to pull the stubborn heterosexual woman to her side, she will do anything: She will lie, connive, cheat, and most certainly make use of drugs and aphrodisiacs. Without the influence of such substances, mutual desire among women is simply unthinkable.
X. Tender prey
The poor straight girl being thus harrassed, IT happens in a moment of weakness. Depicting woman-to-woman short-lived desire is inspiring to male imagination, so you may want to put some effort in the love scenes. But you don't have to.
XI. A ladies' double spells trouble
Don't bother to allot your protagonists the usual romantic bliss of new lovers. After all, there are children and teenagers watching! No, simply let the ride on the emotional rollercoaster begin. Be it that the straight chick is immediately struck by feelings of regret -– a good opportunity, btw, to use the classic line "It was a mistake" (variation: "Yes, it was nice, but somehow it felt wrong") –- a case in which The Lesbian must resort to new tricks, or otherwise the straight chick just cannot make up her mind.
Additional feelings of guilt may be helpful. Don't hold back – it is not unusual for the heterosexual to change her mind several times a day, finally doing the exact opposite of what she was supposedly going to. Women are hysterical creatures, aren't they?
One of the newer variations is trying out a ménage à trois, which, of course, was suggested by The Lesbian, and which does not work out
XII. Living unhappily ever after
It goes without saying that at the end of a lesbian plot somebody has to live unhappily ever after. Now guess who! Maybe the woman that was turned around turns straight again returning to her place in the man's, man's world, or The Lesbian is such a butterfly that she cheats on her, or gets tired of her soon afterwards – be creative!
In case you are actually considering granting the women a happy ending (why that?), you must take care to spare your audience the sight of a happy lesbian couple for more than a short period of time. Actually, you have no choice: The couple has to leave town – and thus, the show – in order to make a new start somewhere else.
In case you are the unlucky writer of a permanent show and the actresses refuse to leave, be sure to let your lesbian couple get together only at the end of their contracts. That way, you will be rid of them, and they won't show up again until the first problems in their relationship arise.
So I have a lot of sympathy for that perspective, but I've come to believe that it's perfectly fine to be attracted to someone, regardless of their sex or sexual orientation -- even if the object of one's attraction happens to be a friend. Repression of such feelings never seems to do anything but harm. If you're going to employ the massive psychological powers of repression for something, it should be the memory of a traumatic event (which can include seeing the bare midriff of women in their 70s who are wearing inappropriately sexual clothing in the grocery store -- which happened to me the other week and I'm *still* suffering). But why use it for the blessed goodness of harmless sexual attraction?
Ulitmately, I don't think there are any special protocals, per se, that differ for friendships between queer and straight gals. That's because I think all "healthy" relationships have at their foundation the same factors: an experience of *mutuality* between the individuals in the relationship and the habitual practice of showing *respect* for each other. This describes not just intimate relationships but friendships, as well. Either you both agree you're acquaintances/ friends/ lovers/ spouses/ tango partners (tango being at the *top* of the hierarchy) and you treat each other with respect, or you've got problems.
(And, yes, for those who know a bit more about my personal life than I describe on this blaaahhg, I am aware of a so-called "friendship" in my life that does not meet those requirements, and I am heeding your warnings about that. Thank you.)
That said, I found myself very curious about Dr. M's question about protocol. Knowing she claims never to have an original thought -- that every idea passing through her brain is either sourced from "Friends," "The Sopranos," or her obsessive relationship with "Sixteen Candles," -- I wondered what was out there on the Internet about this issue.
There wasn't much. But there was the following, which I found exceptionally amusing -- it being a synthesis of a lesbian-straight gal friendship gone awry and TELEVISION. I totally copied it from a web site. Without further adieu, I bring you:
12 Golden Rules for a Lesbian Story
While these rules were originally derived from German soaps and weeklies, I have had to realize that many of them apply to American shows as well, and also to mainstream movies, Fassbinder films, and so on. Dullness and ignorance seem to be universal, don't they?
The more of these rules you follow, the more surprising and successful your little lesbian interlude will be. Minor deviations are permissible, but departing from the course too much might be too demanding on your intellectual abilities, or it could even shatter your entire view of life.
I. Initial position
Don't even dare to think that two single women could simply fall in love with one another, or that two women who have always favored only (or also) women could, or even two single women who happen to prefer women! No, the only possible initial position is the following one: One of the two favors women. The "real" lesbian, you might say. In the following, we shall call her "The Lesbian".
II. Constellations
The other woman is heterosexual, and in the history of your soap opera, drama show, or movies, there should have been absolutely no clue at all that she has ever contemplated having a relationship with a woman. Remember: Long-term preparation of a switch of emotional and sexual orientation is utterly unnecessary!
We recommend that the straight woman maintain a long-term, intact relationship (with a man, naturally). The Lesbian, however, is usually single.
III. Social Life
Your lesbian protagonist, as well as your short-term lesbian couple, do not entertain friendships with other gay people, nor do they ever feel the need to attend a gay club, or coming-out group, or alternative lifestyle center, or the like, or if they do, this may only be mentioned in dialogue, never ever shown! They live exactly like straight people, except for having sex with women instead of men.
Obviously, exposing viewers to a whole different culture might lead to severe brain damage or spontaneous combustion.
IV. The drama may begin
Enter: The Lesbian. The two women get to know one another and become friends.
V. The inevitable course of events
The Lesbian falls in love with the straight woman. Watch out: It may never, ever be the other way around, or even mutual! It is The Lesbian who takes the initiative, anything else would be in contradiction to numerous laws of nature.
VI. The confession
Please note: You may skip this item and the next two and move straight on to # 9, so that The Lesbian will attack without prior warning.
The Lesbian declares her love. This confession may also be expressed nonverbally. The preferred method is so dominant that it deserves a rule of its own:
VII. The surprise kiss
Especially strict rules apply here. The s. k. is principally initiated by The Lesbian. It is strategically placed at the end of an episode, and it is followed by a reaction on the part of the straight woman that ranges between astonished embarrassment, complete surprise and all-out horror.
We can distinguish two major forms of the surprise kiss:
a) S.k. light: i.e. a short version, usually with lips closed, and gentle to rigorous.
b) S.k., sugar-added: passionate, mostly extended smooching (rendering the straight woman's reaction afterwards especially convincing).
UCM interrupts: As a woman who's dated a few "straight" girls in my life, I should note something here. The "surprise kiss" actually *always* comes from the straight girl. And the shit always blows my mind. But as the author of this piece notes up front, presenting this story in any other way may challenge the viewer's intellectual capabilities. That said, I return us to the little soap opera unfolding here.
VIII. Limits
The object of her desires is shocked, naturally. She explains convincingly that she never, ever thought of another woman THAT WAY, that she wants to be "just friends", and that she loves her boyfriend, respectively her husband, deeply.
IX. By all means
Now there are two possibilities:
a) The Lesbian tries to forget the straight woman, and she wants to be "sensible", but of course her emotions are too strong for that, and she can't get her mind off her. – But why be so subtle?
b) The Lesbian keeps on making passes. In order to pull the stubborn heterosexual woman to her side, she will do anything: She will lie, connive, cheat, and most certainly make use of drugs and aphrodisiacs. Without the influence of such substances, mutual desire among women is simply unthinkable.
X. Tender prey
The poor straight girl being thus harrassed, IT happens in a moment of weakness. Depicting woman-to-woman short-lived desire is inspiring to male imagination, so you may want to put some effort in the love scenes. But you don't have to.
XI. A ladies' double spells trouble
Don't bother to allot your protagonists the usual romantic bliss of new lovers. After all, there are children and teenagers watching! No, simply let the ride on the emotional rollercoaster begin. Be it that the straight chick is immediately struck by feelings of regret -– a good opportunity, btw, to use the classic line "It was a mistake" (variation: "Yes, it was nice, but somehow it felt wrong") –- a case in which The Lesbian must resort to new tricks, or otherwise the straight chick just cannot make up her mind.
Additional feelings of guilt may be helpful. Don't hold back – it is not unusual for the heterosexual to change her mind several times a day, finally doing the exact opposite of what she was supposedly going to. Women are hysterical creatures, aren't they?
One of the newer variations is trying out a ménage à trois, which, of course, was suggested by The Lesbian, and which does not work out
XII. Living unhappily ever after
It goes without saying that at the end of a lesbian plot somebody has to live unhappily ever after. Now guess who! Maybe the woman that was turned around turns straight again returning to her place in the man's, man's world, or The Lesbian is such a butterfly that she cheats on her, or gets tired of her soon afterwards – be creative!
In case you are actually considering granting the women a happy ending (why that?), you must take care to spare your audience the sight of a happy lesbian couple for more than a short period of time. Actually, you have no choice: The couple has to leave town – and thus, the show – in order to make a new start somewhere else.
In case you are the unlucky writer of a permanent show and the actresses refuse to leave, be sure to let your lesbian couple get together only at the end of their contracts. That way, you will be rid of them, and they won't show up again until the first problems in their relationship arise.
Note to The Clairvoyant
If you're actually clairvoyant, please read my mind, woman.
Barring that, read this: Feminine (adj) 1. of or like or suitable for women, having the qualities or appearance considered characteristic of a woman.
The first girl you came up with was attractive and met the definition above. But she was very young and way too quiet for her own good. Also, it was not very appealing to have you explain, several times, that "she's got some problems."
This latest gal? Nuh-unh. She seemed nice enough. But how to say this? Not. My. Type.
Barring that, read this: Feminine (adj) 1. of or like or suitable for women, having the qualities or appearance considered characteristic of a woman.
The first girl you came up with was attractive and met the definition above. But she was very young and way too quiet for her own good. Also, it was not very appealing to have you explain, several times, that "she's got some problems."
This latest gal? Nuh-unh. She seemed nice enough. But how to say this? Not. My. Type.
Friday, June 02, 2006
DART: It's what the doctor ordered
Smart people get a wedding planner. This is someone who makes the big event go off without a hitch and lets the bride have her day. It's a beautiful concept.
Little did I know, however, that there are also divorce planners. So it would seem, anyway, if Dr. M's organizational suggestions are to be taken with anything other than a grain of salt.
The other day, she divided up the responsibilities for getting your dear UCM over the post-divorce blues and on into a new realm. I was vacillating over whether I had the motivation/energy to organize a loft-warming party to bring some levity into my new space (especially as I seem to be in need of ice cube trays, spatulas and wooden spoons -- not to mention excessive amounts of wine).
Dr. M first made the "therapeutic" comment that I must allow myself to grieve and to expect it to just sneak the hell up on me at times and bite me in the ass. And then, she divided the chores of getting me past all of it this way:
"Expect that some of your friends will be awkward, some of us will just try to get you drunk (me), some of us will try to get you laid (Bubba), and some of us will just be perfect and listen and say all the right things (S2 and The Debutante)."
This is the composition of my Divorce Action Response Team (DART).
S2 already knows her role and is doing a swell job. For example, when I told her I had stumbled across some love letters written to me by the X-XGF, a woman I lived with back in California (and had said, Oh yeah, there was someone before this last gal; I guess that means there will be someone again in the future), S2 replied with this gem:
"There are and will be other people for you. You *just* have to live through your divorce...In many of my friends, this process has taken about a year (although they have been fighting legally, which creates a horrible nastiness). My point is, it takes a while and I am so glad you have had this sweet reminder of just how lovable you are and how wanted you were by another woman. UCM, the next lady who gets to have you will be lucky indeed. You have so much to offer - humor, ideas, perspective, love, acceptance, kindness, sweetness, intimacy, inner and outer beauty... She will be blessed."
Let's say it in unison, people: Awwww. That's so sweet!
Really, S2. That's one of the nicest things anyone's said to me.
But Bubba. Dear Bubba... When she found out the other night that Dr. M had assigned her the DART task of getting me "laid," Bubba replied, with the most astounding hopelessness in her voice, "Dr. M! How am I supposed to do *that*?! She doesn't go to the bars!"
Dr. M smirked. "Then I guess you've got your work cut out for you."
Bubba kvetched some more about how your dear UCM isn't the kind of gal who will just sleep with *anyone,* and as how that would pose some problems. ... Oh, the humanity!
Dr. M told her to employ whatever means necessary.
Now, mind you, I *was* at the table listening to this. And fortunately, I had a margarita in my hand (because Dr. M was playing *her* DART role perfectly), so something was softening what otherwise could have been a rather depressing commentary on the sex-worthiness of your fair scribe. But I was not short for a retort, and I told Bubba, Well, if worse comes to worst, you could always take care of it yourself.
I mean: C'mon, Bubba! It cannot be *that* hopeless of a task! Can it?
Turns out she might have some help, anyway. Seems The Clairvoyant, who is not part of this circle of friends (though, damn, would I like to see her get into a debate with Dr. M about anything woo-woo...) ... The Clairvoyant apparently is gunning to get someone in the sack with me.
Every so often, she calls and invites me to dinner like this: "What are you doing on Friday night? Want to come out with me and The One for (name that cuisine)?"
Sure, I say.
"Great," TC says. "I've got this other friend who's going to join us. She's a really nice gal. I think you'd like her...."
She did this to me the other day, so tonight, I will be heading out for Vietnamese food and a little lesbionic looky-looky. The last time TC did this, the woman she brought appeared so young that I thought, Are you trying to set me up for a undercover sting with a child prostitute?
But I am assured that tonight's dinner guest is an adult. And someone who's in a line of work related to the field I'm going into. So if she's not cute, at least she's got networking potential.
Anyway, I ran into The Deb when out walking my pup this morning. She is overtaxed with an outrageous school schedule, but I informed her of her role on the DART. She chuckled, and said, "DART! I like that idea."
At least she didn't sound hopeless. And I thanked her for that. Then we talked about schizophrenics with drug and alcohol problems, and I felt ever so much better about myself.
Little did I know, however, that there are also divorce planners. So it would seem, anyway, if Dr. M's organizational suggestions are to be taken with anything other than a grain of salt.
The other day, she divided up the responsibilities for getting your dear UCM over the post-divorce blues and on into a new realm. I was vacillating over whether I had the motivation/energy to organize a loft-warming party to bring some levity into my new space (especially as I seem to be in need of ice cube trays, spatulas and wooden spoons -- not to mention excessive amounts of wine).
Dr. M first made the "therapeutic" comment that I must allow myself to grieve and to expect it to just sneak the hell up on me at times and bite me in the ass. And then, she divided the chores of getting me past all of it this way:
"Expect that some of your friends will be awkward, some of us will just try to get you drunk (me), some of us will try to get you laid (Bubba), and some of us will just be perfect and listen and say all the right things (S2 and The Debutante)."
This is the composition of my Divorce Action Response Team (DART).
S2 already knows her role and is doing a swell job. For example, when I told her I had stumbled across some love letters written to me by the X-XGF, a woman I lived with back in California (and had said, Oh yeah, there was someone before this last gal; I guess that means there will be someone again in the future), S2 replied with this gem:
"There are and will be other people for you. You *just* have to live through your divorce...In many of my friends, this process has taken about a year (although they have been fighting legally, which creates a horrible nastiness). My point is, it takes a while and I am so glad you have had this sweet reminder of just how lovable you are and how wanted you were by another woman. UCM, the next lady who gets to have you will be lucky indeed. You have so much to offer - humor, ideas, perspective, love, acceptance, kindness, sweetness, intimacy, inner and outer beauty... She will be blessed."
Let's say it in unison, people: Awwww. That's so sweet!
Really, S2. That's one of the nicest things anyone's said to me.
But Bubba. Dear Bubba... When she found out the other night that Dr. M had assigned her the DART task of getting me "laid," Bubba replied, with the most astounding hopelessness in her voice, "Dr. M! How am I supposed to do *that*?! She doesn't go to the bars!"
Dr. M smirked. "Then I guess you've got your work cut out for you."
Bubba kvetched some more about how your dear UCM isn't the kind of gal who will just sleep with *anyone,* and as how that would pose some problems. ... Oh, the humanity!
Dr. M told her to employ whatever means necessary.
Now, mind you, I *was* at the table listening to this. And fortunately, I had a margarita in my hand (because Dr. M was playing *her* DART role perfectly), so something was softening what otherwise could have been a rather depressing commentary on the sex-worthiness of your fair scribe. But I was not short for a retort, and I told Bubba, Well, if worse comes to worst, you could always take care of it yourself.
I mean: C'mon, Bubba! It cannot be *that* hopeless of a task! Can it?
Turns out she might have some help, anyway. Seems The Clairvoyant, who is not part of this circle of friends (though, damn, would I like to see her get into a debate with Dr. M about anything woo-woo...) ... The Clairvoyant apparently is gunning to get someone in the sack with me.
Every so often, she calls and invites me to dinner like this: "What are you doing on Friday night? Want to come out with me and The One for (name that cuisine)?"
Sure, I say.
"Great," TC says. "I've got this other friend who's going to join us. She's a really nice gal. I think you'd like her...."
She did this to me the other day, so tonight, I will be heading out for Vietnamese food and a little lesbionic looky-looky. The last time TC did this, the woman she brought appeared so young that I thought, Are you trying to set me up for a undercover sting with a child prostitute?
But I am assured that tonight's dinner guest is an adult. And someone who's in a line of work related to the field I'm going into. So if she's not cute, at least she's got networking potential.
Anyway, I ran into The Deb when out walking my pup this morning. She is overtaxed with an outrageous school schedule, but I informed her of her role on the DART. She chuckled, and said, "DART! I like that idea."
At least she didn't sound hopeless. And I thanked her for that. Then we talked about schizophrenics with drug and alcohol problems, and I felt ever so much better about myself.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Mean & Nasty skills? Check! (Kinda...)
The years have mellowed me, my friends.
Once upon a time, I was a reliable source for the biting remark, the witty retort and a good old nasty word or two. But over the years, life has softened me a bit. I learned somewhere along the way that a) this kind of banter tends to alienate others and b) it's doesn't add anything good in the world (except if you were one of the unaffected onlookers who got a laugh out of it -- and there have been many...).
But what about spine? What about when the best thing to do is make an alienating comment? What about when mean and nasty is what's called for? ... I guess I've been wondering lately whether I've "still got it."
So allow me to offer a status report:
I still have a grain of mean and nasty in me. But I no longer know how to use it effectively. In other words, I can still be a bitch, but not necessary a funny bitch.
At least, that would be the verdict I must take from my class this evening, in which I was feeling a bit peeved with a Certain Someone and told her to "shut up." Yes, I told a classmate to "shut up." I've done this before -- to a different classmate -- but it was a very good-natured "shut up." This one wasn't. It was just an annoyed, cranky "shut up."
I don't even know that it was deserved. Not in the moment anyway. (An argument -- a very slippery one -- can be made that this "shut up" was delivered about a month ago, and that sound just travels slowly, especially coming from a slow-talking southerner. But I don't think I'm gonna get away with that one.)
Instead, one can reasonably say that some latent hostility floating around in The Self surfaced this evening when The Self was feeling particularly galled by having said Certain Someone question why The Self should make a presentation before that of another classmate. Certain Someone sounded pompous when she did this, and The Self got exasperated and said, "Shut up, Certain Someone."
The teacher then asked, "How did that feel to be told to 'shut up,' Certain Someone?"
Certain Someone said she was unable to identify any feelings. The Self said, "I apologize if I hurt any of your unidentified feelings. I was being facetious."
But let's get real. The Self was not being facetious. She was just being mean and nasty. ... The Self assumes those muscles must be stretched every once in a while to prevent atrophy. But The Self is *very disappointed* not to have come up with something funny. "Shut up" is just so ... lame.
How is that for some really fucked up third-person commentary about myself?
I am disappointed. But you know what? I can't be mellow all the time. I suppose if I'm going to be mean and nasty to someone, it might as well be the gal who tried to sell me her fruit farm a while back.
I was relieved to find out, when I got home, that my dog knew nothing about this bad behavior and still appears to love me. I'll take what I can get, OK?
Once upon a time, I was a reliable source for the biting remark, the witty retort and a good old nasty word or two. But over the years, life has softened me a bit. I learned somewhere along the way that a) this kind of banter tends to alienate others and b) it's doesn't add anything good in the world (except if you were one of the unaffected onlookers who got a laugh out of it -- and there have been many...).
But what about spine? What about when the best thing to do is make an alienating comment? What about when mean and nasty is what's called for? ... I guess I've been wondering lately whether I've "still got it."
So allow me to offer a status report:
I still have a grain of mean and nasty in me. But I no longer know how to use it effectively. In other words, I can still be a bitch, but not necessary a funny bitch.
At least, that would be the verdict I must take from my class this evening, in which I was feeling a bit peeved with a Certain Someone and told her to "shut up." Yes, I told a classmate to "shut up." I've done this before -- to a different classmate -- but it was a very good-natured "shut up." This one wasn't. It was just an annoyed, cranky "shut up."
I don't even know that it was deserved. Not in the moment anyway. (An argument -- a very slippery one -- can be made that this "shut up" was delivered about a month ago, and that sound just travels slowly, especially coming from a slow-talking southerner. But I don't think I'm gonna get away with that one.)
Instead, one can reasonably say that some latent hostility floating around in The Self surfaced this evening when The Self was feeling particularly galled by having said Certain Someone question why The Self should make a presentation before that of another classmate. Certain Someone sounded pompous when she did this, and The Self got exasperated and said, "Shut up, Certain Someone."
The teacher then asked, "How did that feel to be told to 'shut up,' Certain Someone?"
Certain Someone said she was unable to identify any feelings. The Self said, "I apologize if I hurt any of your unidentified feelings. I was being facetious."
But let's get real. The Self was not being facetious. She was just being mean and nasty. ... The Self assumes those muscles must be stretched every once in a while to prevent atrophy. But The Self is *very disappointed* not to have come up with something funny. "Shut up" is just so ... lame.
How is that for some really fucked up third-person commentary about myself?
I am disappointed. But you know what? I can't be mellow all the time. I suppose if I'm going to be mean and nasty to someone, it might as well be the gal who tried to sell me her fruit farm a while back.
I was relieved to find out, when I got home, that my dog knew nothing about this bad behavior and still appears to love me. I'll take what I can get, OK?
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Entering midlife
My Alter Ego has caught up with the Real Me, agewise. We are both entering our midlife. ... She's got a boyfriend, but she's generally been striking out in her relationships. She keeps dating cheaters and beaters. This latest dude is a mechanic who's "not very trustworthy."
So the status report is rather generic:
"As you approach the middle years of life, age will probably play a more central role in your experience than it has in your past. For some individuals, the middle years are a time of depression and regret. For others, they mark the beginning of a settling down period of contentment.
"Life can always be as rich and full as you want it to be. You might not be able to climb the highest tree in the forest anymore, but now may be the first time that you allow yourself to experience its beauty without needing to conquer or possess it."
But, as I said, our gal isn't having the best luck at love. At this little break between the stages of my Alter Ego's life, the game suggested, "If you are lonely, why not try the RELATIONSHIP ICON?"
I am not especially feeling lonely tonight -- the Real Me, that is -- but I've been thinking: How convenient that would be -- right? -- to have a "relationship icon" hanging around somewhere in this here loft. Then, when I *am* feeling lonely, I can just hit a little button and, poof!, suddenly would appear a Ladies Lady, a beautiful lass like the starlet from "Tipping the Velvet" (in that lovely tuxedo, no less!), with a bottle of Courvoisier and a stylish leather tote full of sex toys.
Yes, that is *exactly* how life needs to start immitating art.
So the status report is rather generic:
"As you approach the middle years of life, age will probably play a more central role in your experience than it has in your past. For some individuals, the middle years are a time of depression and regret. For others, they mark the beginning of a settling down period of contentment.
"Life can always be as rich and full as you want it to be. You might not be able to climb the highest tree in the forest anymore, but now may be the first time that you allow yourself to experience its beauty without needing to conquer or possess it."
But, as I said, our gal isn't having the best luck at love. At this little break between the stages of my Alter Ego's life, the game suggested, "If you are lonely, why not try the RELATIONSHIP ICON?"
I am not especially feeling lonely tonight -- the Real Me, that is -- but I've been thinking: How convenient that would be -- right? -- to have a "relationship icon" hanging around somewhere in this here loft. Then, when I *am* feeling lonely, I can just hit a little button and, poof!, suddenly would appear a Ladies Lady, a beautiful lass like the starlet from "Tipping the Velvet" (in that lovely tuxedo, no less!), with a bottle of Courvoisier and a stylish leather tote full of sex toys.
Yes, that is *exactly* how life needs to start immitating art.
Monday, May 29, 2006
My night with the corporate hacks
Let me say that there is an experience I love in a way that moves my flesh. (Actually, there are several things that do so, but *this one* has nothing to do with sex.)
Specifically, it is walking into a room full of people who a) are still doing the same old shit that I am no longer doing and b) do not recognize me because I look so fucking good (which, mind you, is relative to how I used to look).
So earlier today, Red calls me up to tell me about her trip to Italy. Then she says, "Did RT invite you to his barbecue tonight?" ... Uh, no. But then, I've seen RT maybe twice in the past year, so I really wouldn't expect that," I reply. "Well," Red says, "I *can't imagine* he was trying to be exclusionary. Mr. Clean doesn't want to go, so come be my date." (Later, I got a few handfuls of flesh in exchange for doing so. But what can I say? Payback is hell. Don't ask....)
Anyway, I walk into the party -- indoors because, like, the weather SUCKS for a Memorial Day weekend -- and I am confronted with a whole bunch of people from The Known World, which, for my regular readers, was part of The Former World until I decided to integrate my various selves into a whole person.
Some of you may recall that I was laid off last year. The best rejection of my life was Corporate America telling me, "You don't fit in here." Praise ya Jesus and hallelujia, give me severance and unemployment! Amen! ... So this room I walked into was FILLED with former co-workers.
Red lead the charge, and I followed. Hello, Andy. Hello, Paul. Hello, Litty. Hello, Annette Funicello.
Annette had seen me back in March, so she wasn't surprised. But the rest of them? ... Out in the yard, Litty stood and looked at me. "Have you lost weight?" he asked. Yeah, but maybe you're noticing my hair, I said. "Your *hair*!" he replied. "It *is* different. Jesus, you look good."
Red said, "Check out that necklace."
Totally random. But Litty did. Then said, "Check out that woman I'm gonna marry next week." He pointed to this gorgeous Italian woman, and I resisted saying, Isn't she so much better looking than Adeline?
Litty asked me all about school and whether it was a dangerous thing for psychotherapists to "cram" too many credits into a single semester. If they're going to be therapists, I think it is, I told him. If they're going on to get a doctorate, I don't think it matters.
Then it was Clark's turn at me. "I didn't even recognize you when you walked in. Then I heard your voice, and I said, 'Is that *really* UCM?' You look different. You look great!" Too bad for you I'm still gay, I couldn't resist saying. Clark smiled and asked, "What have you done to your hair?"
Then, Red and I got a big old earful about his divorce three years ago, this being a man who does not talk about his personal life to his co-workers. He's too sweet and too good looking to be single. Even I want to fuck him.
But I digress.
We talked to Clark for a while. He said to me, "So, you disappeared, and where have you been? Apparently traveling and going to graduate school and getting better looking. Life is not fair." ... I'm a sucker for lines like that.
But then, I went in to get another glass of wine. This is where I met Catherine. She works in IT with my old company, and I don't believe we ever met. But she had been calling Red "loud and friendly," and when I said, You forgot the part where she's a total bitch, Catherine sidled on up and asked, "What do you know about it?"
Long story short, it was only a few minutes before Catherine was telling me all about how her "dream job" was to be a "trial psychologist testifying on behalf of crazy people. And not just regular crazy people but *CRAZY* crazy people. Like, you know, the ones who are in homes."
I think you need more wine, dear, said old UCM. And then, perhaps, you will actually avail yourself of some *food* to absorb ... how many drinks have you had, dear?
She raised four fingers at me. And said, again, that she works in IT. Poor thing.
I went outside and RT toasted some buns for me and gave me a burger. (BLINDER BEHAVIOR, Dr. M! And I'm really in a bad way about it.) Later, around the fire, he told me that psychotherapy was a world he knew nothing about. "It's very strange," he said, "to think that people will pay to talk to someone."
No shit, I said. But when you think of all the hours I spent listening to you for FREE....
He and Annette Funicello are getting married in the fall. Litty and his Italian bride -- and goddamn, she is sooooo much hotter than Adeline, even when you take Adeline's high fashion sense and fabulous shoes into consideration -- are getting married next week.
And Andy, who I've thought a bachelor all these years, turns out to have a wife of several years (strangely, neither can remember their wedding date) with whom he's been involved for more than 13 years. His wife asked me a lot of questions about therapy and later, around the fire, reported that I "know my stuff." (I was totally trashing CBT. Is it any surprise?) ... This despite the fact that she asked for my opinion about ACT, and I had no clue what she was talking about. After returning home, so drunk that I can't feel my legs (good thing I didn't drive), I Googled that and see there is something called Acceptance & Commitment Therapy. She read about it in Time magazine. I told her I was, as a former journalist and news hound, partaking in a "media fast."
I'm so full of shit. (Although that part about the news fast is true....)
Anyway, it was a peculiar night.
I did not, as I suggested earlier that I might, find any trouble there. How could I? All of these folks are slaves in Corporate America. I feel for them, knowing it was only a year ago that I was waiting to be cut loose from the plantation myself, no longer responding with a "yessa, massa," to the dictates of the next weenie up in the heirarchy of fools and misanthropes who run the place.
Catherine, upon hearing I had been laid off just a month before I intended to quit and go to graduate school, said, "It has been my dream to have that happen to me! To be told, 'Sorry, you don't fit in here' is all I've ever wanted. And I mean, like, that's why I wear these shoes to work!"
I looked down. There I saw a pair of pink Vans decorated with little sculls and cross-bones.
You're gonna have to step it up a notch if you want to get laid off, I told her. Try getting that design tattooed on the back of your hands. And then tell CR (one of the big wigs) that your tarrot cards indicate she's stealing from employee 401(k) plans. It worked for me! In the meantime, have a little more wine, dear. You work for Corporate America, and you want to be doing something else. Best you can hope for at this point is to forget about that for a few hours. Tomorrow is a holiday, right? For you, anyway. For me, it's just another Monday of blissful unemployment and graduate school. Bottoms up, darling. ... Cheers!
Specifically, it is walking into a room full of people who a) are still doing the same old shit that I am no longer doing and b) do not recognize me because I look so fucking good (which, mind you, is relative to how I used to look).
So earlier today, Red calls me up to tell me about her trip to Italy. Then she says, "Did RT invite you to his barbecue tonight?" ... Uh, no. But then, I've seen RT maybe twice in the past year, so I really wouldn't expect that," I reply. "Well," Red says, "I *can't imagine* he was trying to be exclusionary. Mr. Clean doesn't want to go, so come be my date." (Later, I got a few handfuls of flesh in exchange for doing so. But what can I say? Payback is hell. Don't ask....)
Anyway, I walk into the party -- indoors because, like, the weather SUCKS for a Memorial Day weekend -- and I am confronted with a whole bunch of people from The Known World, which, for my regular readers, was part of The Former World until I decided to integrate my various selves into a whole person.
Some of you may recall that I was laid off last year. The best rejection of my life was Corporate America telling me, "You don't fit in here." Praise ya Jesus and hallelujia, give me severance and unemployment! Amen! ... So this room I walked into was FILLED with former co-workers.
Red lead the charge, and I followed. Hello, Andy. Hello, Paul. Hello, Litty. Hello, Annette Funicello.
Annette had seen me back in March, so she wasn't surprised. But the rest of them? ... Out in the yard, Litty stood and looked at me. "Have you lost weight?" he asked. Yeah, but maybe you're noticing my hair, I said. "Your *hair*!" he replied. "It *is* different. Jesus, you look good."
Red said, "Check out that necklace."
Totally random. But Litty did. Then said, "Check out that woman I'm gonna marry next week." He pointed to this gorgeous Italian woman, and I resisted saying, Isn't she so much better looking than Adeline?
Litty asked me all about school and whether it was a dangerous thing for psychotherapists to "cram" too many credits into a single semester. If they're going to be therapists, I think it is, I told him. If they're going on to get a doctorate, I don't think it matters.
Then it was Clark's turn at me. "I didn't even recognize you when you walked in. Then I heard your voice, and I said, 'Is that *really* UCM?' You look different. You look great!" Too bad for you I'm still gay, I couldn't resist saying. Clark smiled and asked, "What have you done to your hair?"
Then, Red and I got a big old earful about his divorce three years ago, this being a man who does not talk about his personal life to his co-workers. He's too sweet and too good looking to be single. Even I want to fuck him.
But I digress.
We talked to Clark for a while. He said to me, "So, you disappeared, and where have you been? Apparently traveling and going to graduate school and getting better looking. Life is not fair." ... I'm a sucker for lines like that.
But then, I went in to get another glass of wine. This is where I met Catherine. She works in IT with my old company, and I don't believe we ever met. But she had been calling Red "loud and friendly," and when I said, You forgot the part where she's a total bitch, Catherine sidled on up and asked, "What do you know about it?"
Long story short, it was only a few minutes before Catherine was telling me all about how her "dream job" was to be a "trial psychologist testifying on behalf of crazy people. And not just regular crazy people but *CRAZY* crazy people. Like, you know, the ones who are in homes."
I think you need more wine, dear, said old UCM. And then, perhaps, you will actually avail yourself of some *food* to absorb ... how many drinks have you had, dear?
She raised four fingers at me. And said, again, that she works in IT. Poor thing.
I went outside and RT toasted some buns for me and gave me a burger. (BLINDER BEHAVIOR, Dr. M! And I'm really in a bad way about it.) Later, around the fire, he told me that psychotherapy was a world he knew nothing about. "It's very strange," he said, "to think that people will pay to talk to someone."
No shit, I said. But when you think of all the hours I spent listening to you for FREE....
He and Annette Funicello are getting married in the fall. Litty and his Italian bride -- and goddamn, she is sooooo much hotter than Adeline, even when you take Adeline's high fashion sense and fabulous shoes into consideration -- are getting married next week.
And Andy, who I've thought a bachelor all these years, turns out to have a wife of several years (strangely, neither can remember their wedding date) with whom he's been involved for more than 13 years. His wife asked me a lot of questions about therapy and later, around the fire, reported that I "know my stuff." (I was totally trashing CBT. Is it any surprise?) ... This despite the fact that she asked for my opinion about ACT, and I had no clue what she was talking about. After returning home, so drunk that I can't feel my legs (good thing I didn't drive), I Googled that and see there is something called Acceptance & Commitment Therapy. She read about it in Time magazine. I told her I was, as a former journalist and news hound, partaking in a "media fast."
I'm so full of shit. (Although that part about the news fast is true....)
Anyway, it was a peculiar night.
I did not, as I suggested earlier that I might, find any trouble there. How could I? All of these folks are slaves in Corporate America. I feel for them, knowing it was only a year ago that I was waiting to be cut loose from the plantation myself, no longer responding with a "yessa, massa," to the dictates of the next weenie up in the heirarchy of fools and misanthropes who run the place.
Catherine, upon hearing I had been laid off just a month before I intended to quit and go to graduate school, said, "It has been my dream to have that happen to me! To be told, 'Sorry, you don't fit in here' is all I've ever wanted. And I mean, like, that's why I wear these shoes to work!"
I looked down. There I saw a pair of pink Vans decorated with little sculls and cross-bones.
You're gonna have to step it up a notch if you want to get laid off, I told her. Try getting that design tattooed on the back of your hands. And then tell CR (one of the big wigs) that your tarrot cards indicate she's stealing from employee 401(k) plans. It worked for me! In the meantime, have a little more wine, dear. You work for Corporate America, and you want to be doing something else. Best you can hope for at this point is to forget about that for a few hours. Tomorrow is a holiday, right? For you, anyway. For me, it's just another Monday of blissful unemployment and graduate school. Bottoms up, darling. ... Cheers!
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Rejected by the Peace Corps
My Alter Ego is suffering from depression. That's just great. Supposedly, she's in psychotherapy, but I haven't heard anything more about it.
I think she's all bummed because she wanted to join the Peace Corps, and, even at the risk of losing her boyfriend, she applied. The boy got all pissed at her and broke up even before she found out if she'd been accepted or not. Turns out, she's "not sensitive enough to do this kind of work." (shock and dismay, i tell ya, shock and dismay....)
She's just passed through young adulthood, and it seems she's still living at home. Her mom died from cancer recently. That may be another source for the depression. Who knows?!
Here is my Alter Ego's status report:
"Now, regarding your emotional and personality development...
"You are a very trustworthy person.
"Even though we all have our secrets, you are doing a very good job of keeping your wilder side under control.
"You are quite depressed.
"You can be sensible and understanding.
"You are a pretty jittery kind of person.
"Vocationally, you are doing well.
"You certainly have a good head on your shoulders. You are not only book-smart; you also have plenty of common sense.
"By this time, you may have been feeling a bit of pressure to achieve, get ahead, buy a house or possibly even (gasp!) settle down. You have gone through quite a range of experiences already, but there is a great deal more to come."
Oh yeah, she's also getting maternal urges. Suffice it to say, I don't relate to this at all. In fact, I have no idea why she's "jittery" either. What have I done to this young woman?
And, on the matter of those places where the Real Me and my Alter Ego are a bit too aligned ... it's the part where we're keeping our "wilder side under control." The Real Me is thinking more and more that some of that wildness needs to be unleashed on an unsuspecting world. But how?
Well, I'm going to a barbecue right now with some people who ... oh, let's just say, there's nothing to lose there. Maybe I'll find a little trouble that way. Or learn how to take a nap while standing with a paper plate in my hand. We'll see....
I think she's all bummed because she wanted to join the Peace Corps, and, even at the risk of losing her boyfriend, she applied. The boy got all pissed at her and broke up even before she found out if she'd been accepted or not. Turns out, she's "not sensitive enough to do this kind of work." (shock and dismay, i tell ya, shock and dismay....)
She's just passed through young adulthood, and it seems she's still living at home. Her mom died from cancer recently. That may be another source for the depression. Who knows?!
Here is my Alter Ego's status report:
"Now, regarding your emotional and personality development...
"You are a very trustworthy person.
"Even though we all have our secrets, you are doing a very good job of keeping your wilder side under control.
"You are quite depressed.
"You can be sensible and understanding.
"You are a pretty jittery kind of person.
"Vocationally, you are doing well.
"You certainly have a good head on your shoulders. You are not only book-smart; you also have plenty of common sense.
"By this time, you may have been feeling a bit of pressure to achieve, get ahead, buy a house or possibly even (gasp!) settle down. You have gone through quite a range of experiences already, but there is a great deal more to come."
Oh yeah, she's also getting maternal urges. Suffice it to say, I don't relate to this at all. In fact, I have no idea why she's "jittery" either. What have I done to this young woman?
And, on the matter of those places where the Real Me and my Alter Ego are a bit too aligned ... it's the part where we're keeping our "wilder side under control." The Real Me is thinking more and more that some of that wildness needs to be unleashed on an unsuspecting world. But how?
Well, I'm going to a barbecue right now with some people who ... oh, let's just say, there's nothing to lose there. Maybe I'll find a little trouble that way. Or learn how to take a nap while standing with a paper plate in my hand. We'll see....
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Me and you both, Freud...
"The great question... which I have not been able to answer, despite my thirty years of research into the feminine soul, is "What does a woman want?"
-- SIGMUND FREUD
-- SIGMUND FREUD
I've redeemed myself!
Heh. I wasn't even trying to get my Alter Ego back in good graces with the world, and yet I've managed to do so. A progress report on my so-called life:
"Now, regarding your emotional development...
"Your trustworthiness and sense of fair play are commendable. You are an honest young woman, but there is always room for improvement.
"A positive aspect of your adolescence is your ability to resist temptation and not give into your impulses. Since adolescence is a time for testing limits, this can get some people into some pretty dangerous situations. However, leading an excessively sheltered life can be boring.
"You seem to be enjoying most of what you do. Even though you experience "the blues" every once in a while, it's nice to see that you are not having a depressed, traumatized life.
"Even though an occasional explosive outburst is common in most adolescents, you seem to have everything well under control. You seem to be sensitive and gentle.
You certainly have a good head on your shoulders. You are not only book-smart, but you also have plenty of common sense."
Except for that part where I didn't have a traumatized life (who would UCM be today if not on the path to being what S2 calls a "wounded healer"?), it would seem that, for now at least, my Alter Ego and my Real Self are starting to align. How curious.
I'm not sure why I like this game so much. The graphics are BORING -- pretty much just a black screen with white questions -- but it's keeping me interested enough to play it. And it takes forever, which is not something for which I normally have tolerance. It's like playing Risk or something. It just goes on and on and on.
Perhaps it's just that my Real Life is so much more complicated and intense right now than I care for it to be, and my Alter Ego provides a good escape. Plus, apparently, she's pretty *hot* in addition to being intelligent. Not to mention, she's got really good social graces.
Heh. Grace, for the Real Me, is a work in progress. Kinda like building a highway. Through the Amazon.
If I only knew back then what I know now....
"Now, regarding your emotional development...
"Your trustworthiness and sense of fair play are commendable. You are an honest young woman, but there is always room for improvement.
"A positive aspect of your adolescence is your ability to resist temptation and not give into your impulses. Since adolescence is a time for testing limits, this can get some people into some pretty dangerous situations. However, leading an excessively sheltered life can be boring.
"You seem to be enjoying most of what you do. Even though you experience "the blues" every once in a while, it's nice to see that you are not having a depressed, traumatized life.
"Even though an occasional explosive outburst is common in most adolescents, you seem to have everything well under control. You seem to be sensitive and gentle.
You certainly have a good head on your shoulders. You are not only book-smart, but you also have plenty of common sense."
Except for that part where I didn't have a traumatized life (who would UCM be today if not on the path to being what S2 calls a "wounded healer"?), it would seem that, for now at least, my Alter Ego and my Real Self are starting to align. How curious.
I'm not sure why I like this game so much. The graphics are BORING -- pretty much just a black screen with white questions -- but it's keeping me interested enough to play it. And it takes forever, which is not something for which I normally have tolerance. It's like playing Risk or something. It just goes on and on and on.
Perhaps it's just that my Real Life is so much more complicated and intense right now than I care for it to be, and my Alter Ego provides a good escape. Plus, apparently, she's pretty *hot* in addition to being intelligent. Not to mention, she's got really good social graces.
Heh. Grace, for the Real Me, is a work in progress. Kinda like building a highway. Through the Amazon.
If I only knew back then what I know now....
Thursday, May 25, 2006
My Alter Ego's childhood
There's nothing quite like getting the opportunity to relive your youth. Those of you who knew me when I was a teen-ager (hello, JellyGirl!) *know* what kind of gal I was. But for all of you who have only had the pleasure of knowing your dear UCM as an adult, well, there are some things better left a mystery.
Suffice it to say, *this* is how my Alter Ego got rated as she moved into adolescence. I think she has more spite and malice than I ever did -- either as a young lass or as the dear woman I am today:
"Now, regarding your emotional and personality development...
"You are not the kind of girl that can be easily trusted. Some people might even call you downright sneaky at times.
"The degree to which you display aggressive types of behavior is somewhat alarming, especially for a young lady. You can be nasty and spiteful at times."
I can guarantee you, friends, you don't want to know what kinds of decisions I've made for my Alter Ego to wind up with such a bum rap. Suffice it to say, I made the best choices I could under the circumstances.
Now, perhaps someone will call Stanley Milgram and get me an audience with his zapping machine. My Alter Ego would apparently have no problems carrying on with his experiments. And *not* because she defers to authority. She's just vicious.
But then, I am reminded that S2 and yours truly were both rated by Zip's personality testing as having criminal tendancies. The thing I love most about my life right now is that I'm getting to know some really good people with whom to burn in hell on accounts of our various crimes against god, church and society. Y'all know who you are (including the "atheist in Texas").
Kisses! (Although, to be fair, my Alter Ego would tell you to plant them on her ass!)
Suffice it to say, *this* is how my Alter Ego got rated as she moved into adolescence. I think she has more spite and malice than I ever did -- either as a young lass or as the dear woman I am today:
"Now, regarding your emotional and personality development...
"You are not the kind of girl that can be easily trusted. Some people might even call you downright sneaky at times.
"The degree to which you display aggressive types of behavior is somewhat alarming, especially for a young lady. You can be nasty and spiteful at times."
I can guarantee you, friends, you don't want to know what kinds of decisions I've made for my Alter Ego to wind up with such a bum rap. Suffice it to say, I made the best choices I could under the circumstances.
Now, perhaps someone will call Stanley Milgram and get me an audience with his zapping machine. My Alter Ego would apparently have no problems carrying on with his experiments. And *not* because she defers to authority. She's just vicious.
But then, I am reminded that S2 and yours truly were both rated by Zip's personality testing as having criminal tendancies. The thing I love most about my life right now is that I'm getting to know some really good people with whom to burn in hell on accounts of our various crimes against god, church and society. Y'all know who you are (including the "atheist in Texas").
Kisses! (Although, to be fair, my Alter Ego would tell you to plant them on her ass!)
From vaginas to Jews, I've got it!
... I love Dave Chapelle's joke about the industrious hooker who had an extra vagina surgically added to the side of her hip. There's a punch line to this. I'll share it if you wanna know. But I wouldn't want to ruin the joke for those who haven't seen his flick, which Bubba and I saw tonight. Very funny. ... And I didn't even know who the fuck Dave Chapelle was. I still don't, actually. But damn, he's funny.
... But here, I will recount a funny line from "Mrs. Henderson Presents," which I watched this afternoon with Dr. R for a class assignment. From one old lady to the next: "You're like a delicious, overripe Mata Hari." That tickled me. I do know who the Mata Hari was. And thinking of Judi Dench as a "delious, overripe" version of her was ... ok, the first time I got turned on by an old lady. I know: OVERSHARE! But there you have it. (C'mon! If I'm lucky, when I'm 75, I'll have me an old dame just like her. But I got about 40 years to go 'til then, so in the meantime....)
... I'm playing Alter Ego, which is some funky web game I linked to via Dr. M's dear ctrl-freak's blog, and so far, I've managed to drink a bottle of poison (well, it tasted sweet, and I was an infant) *and* helped catch a child murderer who tried to lure me into his car when I was a little kid. Ctrl-freak tells me he tried to live a more conscientious life through his alter ego but ended up dying on an operating room table -- a spinster, no less! It is my belief that the conscientious among us have NO FUN. Therefore, I am drinking poison and starting family fights. ... Perhaps I should consider that this is *not* my alter ego and that I've simply traveled back in time. But I think I might get to be heterosexual this go 'round. That could be amusing.
... I played a few bars of "Ode to Joy" on my cello this afternoon that were actually recognizable. This was very pleasing. ... My teacher made some comment to me last week about my fingers getting more sensitive. I don't know about that. My left index finger is starting to feel really funky. And it appears my fingerprint is being erased in spots.
... I forgot to mention: The One had a really fabulous art gallery opening down at Canon Beach a few weeks ago. Apparently, his lovely industrial paintings are selling like hot cakes. I'm just a little pissed at myself because I have for the past several months been regarding a painting of the Morrison Bridge in The Clairvoyant's office and thinking I would like to buy it. It sold, natch. For way more than The One would've asked me to pay for it. So all is right in the world. Except for the part where I don't have that painting.
... I bought this bow tie (black on a thick white tux collar) for the pup Brogan last week. He wore it to a dinner party on Friday, showed his duds to S2 on Saturday and displayed his servantly self again this afternoon when Dr. R came to watch that movie. (Look, if I'm gonna buy something like that, people are gonna see it.) But what I thought was precious beyond reason -- precious to the point where I *should* have puked, if there wasn't some kind of Crazy-for-Little-Dogs Lady lurking within me -- was when he got up in the bay window and took exception to something in the street. There, with his little tux collar and bow tie, he was lording over the street. Must've looked quite *special* to the passersby who got a gander at him.
... Of course, the pup is getting something of a reputation 'round these parts. He has friends -- both dogs *and* cats -- here. And he has legions of human admirers who inquire about his breeding and whatnot. But the weirdest thing yet were the people who stopped me in the street to videotape him. I know he's cute and all, but ... jeez, you know that feeling you get when guys only look at your breasts when talking to you? That's what it's like being with the pup. He's like walking a set of breasts so amazing that even the women can't avert their eyes. ... It was so refreshing the other day when a woman sitting in front of a cafe and talking on her cell phone looked at ME and screamed, "Keep that dog away from me!" when we were like, 6 or 8 feet away. I guess she was scared of dogs. In any case, it felt good to get some eye contact....
... Dr. M gave me a book the other night titled, "The Future of the Brain." I've been reading it, and it's freaking me out a little because the author, a neurobiologist, is talking about MIND CONTROL. I'm thinking, Like, I totally shouldn't read this before I go to bed. But I did. And then I had some "Donovan's Brain"-like dream. OK, really, it was a flashback. Curt Siodmak was poking me in the middle of my forehead and saying, "Hello. Is this thing turned on? Is there a brain in here?" Which *totally* happened in real life. What was it I asked him? I think it was whether a film festival in Berlin was showing *only* his films. ... But, no, really, he was a nice guy. I liked him. I think about him with some regularity, primarily when contemplating whether to flee the United States because of the tide of fascism we've been seeing. Curt told me it was his wife who made them flee the Nazis. Even after the Nazis stripped all his books from the shelves and burned them, Curt was thinking it would pass. And his wife, who was Swiss, told him: "Stay if you want; I'm leaving." I like to imagine she thumped his forehead and asked, "Is there a brain in here?" ... In any case, thanks, Dr. M, for providing the fodder for a whole new stew of weird dreams.
... So, to recap. This evening, I have written about: vaginas, getting turned on by Judi Dench, drinking poison in an online game, playing "Ode to Joy," my disappearing finger prints, missing the chance to buy a painting I really liked, dressing up my dog in evening wear, comparing my pup to breasts, Dr. M's brain book and being ridiculed by a Nazi-fleeing jewish sci-fi writer. ... Really, is there anything I've missed? Could you -- would you dare! -- ask for more?
... But here, I will recount a funny line from "Mrs. Henderson Presents," which I watched this afternoon with Dr. R for a class assignment. From one old lady to the next: "You're like a delicious, overripe Mata Hari." That tickled me. I do know who the Mata Hari was. And thinking of Judi Dench as a "delious, overripe" version of her was ... ok, the first time I got turned on by an old lady. I know: OVERSHARE! But there you have it. (C'mon! If I'm lucky, when I'm 75, I'll have me an old dame just like her. But I got about 40 years to go 'til then, so in the meantime....)
... I'm playing Alter Ego, which is some funky web game I linked to via Dr. M's dear ctrl-freak's blog, and so far, I've managed to drink a bottle of poison (well, it tasted sweet, and I was an infant) *and* helped catch a child murderer who tried to lure me into his car when I was a little kid. Ctrl-freak tells me he tried to live a more conscientious life through his alter ego but ended up dying on an operating room table -- a spinster, no less! It is my belief that the conscientious among us have NO FUN. Therefore, I am drinking poison and starting family fights. ... Perhaps I should consider that this is *not* my alter ego and that I've simply traveled back in time. But I think I might get to be heterosexual this go 'round. That could be amusing.
... I played a few bars of "Ode to Joy" on my cello this afternoon that were actually recognizable. This was very pleasing. ... My teacher made some comment to me last week about my fingers getting more sensitive. I don't know about that. My left index finger is starting to feel really funky. And it appears my fingerprint is being erased in spots.
... I forgot to mention: The One had a really fabulous art gallery opening down at Canon Beach a few weeks ago. Apparently, his lovely industrial paintings are selling like hot cakes. I'm just a little pissed at myself because I have for the past several months been regarding a painting of the Morrison Bridge in The Clairvoyant's office and thinking I would like to buy it. It sold, natch. For way more than The One would've asked me to pay for it. So all is right in the world. Except for the part where I don't have that painting.
... I bought this bow tie (black on a thick white tux collar) for the pup Brogan last week. He wore it to a dinner party on Friday, showed his duds to S2 on Saturday and displayed his servantly self again this afternoon when Dr. R came to watch that movie. (Look, if I'm gonna buy something like that, people are gonna see it.) But what I thought was precious beyond reason -- precious to the point where I *should* have puked, if there wasn't some kind of Crazy-for-Little-Dogs Lady lurking within me -- was when he got up in the bay window and took exception to something in the street. There, with his little tux collar and bow tie, he was lording over the street. Must've looked quite *special* to the passersby who got a gander at him.
... Of course, the pup is getting something of a reputation 'round these parts. He has friends -- both dogs *and* cats -- here. And he has legions of human admirers who inquire about his breeding and whatnot. But the weirdest thing yet were the people who stopped me in the street to videotape him. I know he's cute and all, but ... jeez, you know that feeling you get when guys only look at your breasts when talking to you? That's what it's like being with the pup. He's like walking a set of breasts so amazing that even the women can't avert their eyes. ... It was so refreshing the other day when a woman sitting in front of a cafe and talking on her cell phone looked at ME and screamed, "Keep that dog away from me!" when we were like, 6 or 8 feet away. I guess she was scared of dogs. In any case, it felt good to get some eye contact....
... Dr. M gave me a book the other night titled, "The Future of the Brain." I've been reading it, and it's freaking me out a little because the author, a neurobiologist, is talking about MIND CONTROL. I'm thinking, Like, I totally shouldn't read this before I go to bed. But I did. And then I had some "Donovan's Brain"-like dream. OK, really, it was a flashback. Curt Siodmak was poking me in the middle of my forehead and saying, "Hello. Is this thing turned on? Is there a brain in here?" Which *totally* happened in real life. What was it I asked him? I think it was whether a film festival in Berlin was showing *only* his films. ... But, no, really, he was a nice guy. I liked him. I think about him with some regularity, primarily when contemplating whether to flee the United States because of the tide of fascism we've been seeing. Curt told me it was his wife who made them flee the Nazis. Even after the Nazis stripped all his books from the shelves and burned them, Curt was thinking it would pass. And his wife, who was Swiss, told him: "Stay if you want; I'm leaving." I like to imagine she thumped his forehead and asked, "Is there a brain in here?" ... In any case, thanks, Dr. M, for providing the fodder for a whole new stew of weird dreams.
... So, to recap. This evening, I have written about: vaginas, getting turned on by Judi Dench, drinking poison in an online game, playing "Ode to Joy," my disappearing finger prints, missing the chance to buy a painting I really liked, dressing up my dog in evening wear, comparing my pup to breasts, Dr. M's brain book and being ridiculed by a Nazi-fleeing jewish sci-fi writer. ... Really, is there anything I've missed? Could you -- would you dare! -- ask for more?
Sunday, May 21, 2006
On the cello...
I have bruises on the inside of my left thigh, thanks to my newest life-enriching pursuit. The cello, which I have been playing for all of a week, is held in balance courtesy of the thighs, and it seems mine are susceptible to bruising. But, except for how that looks when I wear shorts, I don't really care.
I've only been at it for a week, but I'm taking great pleasure in learning this instrument. I have for the first time in my life learned to read some musical notes and am getting my first insights into the other funny stuff that shows up in music, such as how tempo is delineated.
All along, I thought reading music was some kind of outrageously hard thing to do -- like reading chinese characters or something -- and I'm surprised to find out this is not the case. My mother -- let's just call her Cruella going forward, shall we? -- was fairly persistent in shooing me away from music as a child. One of the things she told me was that I was not smart enough to learn how to read it. I don't know what that was all about, but the result is that I believed it must be outrageously hard to learn music, especially if you didn't learn it as a child.
And yet here I am, without any effort, a week into my little experiment with the cello, and I'm having no problem looking at a score and saying, "F-sharp, E, E, D, F-sharp, E, A." So that's been a surprise.
But nothing has prepared me for the surprise of how satisfying it is to hit a note on the cello itself. First, however, a little backstory:
It was nearly 10 years ago that I first picked up a cello. It belonged to Breanna, the daughter of my friend Lesha, who recently died. Breanna was 9 at the time, and she showed me how to sit, gave me a little instruction on holding the bow and then I took great pleasure for a few minutes in pulling the bow across the strings. I never forgot the feeling. Nor my desire to learn the instrument.
The day that Lesha died, I had stumbled across a violin repair shop here in town, and found myself looking longingly into the window at the instruments. I thought about Breanna's cello, and I wondered whether she was still playing. I also wondered, then, about how Lesha was doing, as it had been a long time since we'd been in touch.
The next day, I learned that Breanna, who graduated from high school last year, had found her mother dead in bed that morning, killed by having too big a heart. And though I'm not into mysticism, I found it curious that I had been thinking about Lesha and Breanna and the cello that very day, when it had been a while since I had thought of them.
Many years ago, I made a little promise to myself that when someone for whom I've cared deeply is "subtracted" from my life through death, I will find some way of remembering them by "adding" something enriching. The death of my brother turned into the motivation to attend graduate school and radically alter my life's work. The death of my aunt last year prompted me to accept an invitation to reconnect with some family members I've long cherished but with whom I'd been out of contact.
Lesha's death combined with a longing I've been experiencing more strongly in the past couple years: to learn a musical instrument. The process of such "adding" for me is a matter of immediacy; it's a recognition of the fleeting nature of life and a choice to do something about a desire rather than allowing it to stay latent. So, given how my thoughts had turned to the cello the very day of her death, I thought about it for two weeks or so and then made the call.
Last week, I had my first lesson. This past Friday, I played a rather plodding and off-key version of "Mary Had a Little Lamb" for some friends who came to dinner. There was, admist amused laughter, an encouraging round of applause. Several months hence, I hope to give a performance of something a little more erudite.
At one point, I found myself waxing philosophic with one of them -- The Debutante's friend who looks like Kate Winslet -- about the powerful sensation of playing this instrument. No doubt, part of it was the wine talking -- that would be the part where I equated the sensitivity of the instrument to that of the clitoris. But most of what I found myself saying was the truth.
I have picked up many instruments in my life and given them a novice's try. I have had countless interactions with guitars, even learning a couple chords and strum strumming away. I've had my moments with a coronet and a clarinet. There's my harmonica, on which my tied tongue prevents any real progress. And, naturally, there's been all sorts of drumming.
Never in any of these experiences have I felt so thoroughly captivated as I am by the cello. Even on the merits of how it is held -- between the thighs and up against the chest -- it is provocative. Sitting this way, with that resonating wood contacing my body, I feel each note vibrating through me from head to toe. When I hit a bad note, the cello lets me know in feeling just as much as in hearing. It's punishing enough to make me wince. But when I hit the right notes, it is rewarding beyond measure. (Really, it does make sense to compare it to the clitoris -- even when I'm not drunk.)
It is an instrument that begs to be touched and played. The sensuous curves of its body, the elegant stretch of its fingerboard, the artistic scroll atop. All of this speaks to the latent - though well-explored -- woodworker in me.
And its sound? Well, it's the most lovely of the strings, I think. Not so hop-along as the guitar, not so touchy and neurotic as the violin, not so weighty and imposing as the bass. You don't have to be Yo-Yo Ma to make it sing (but I'll bet it's FABULOUS to be Yo-Yo Ma playing the cello).
After my little performance Friday night, I did something I'm not supposed to do: I let my friends play my cello. (I'm not sure *why* I'm not supposed to do that, but I've been warned dutifully by all the books that it's a "bad" thing.) In my opinion, something so pleasurable is to be shared as much as possible. So I've happily let Dr. M, The Deb and S2 give it a go. They each had different reactions, but I think they all took away an understanding of what I was trying to tell them about the instrument's ability to move its player. Dr. M even told me the cello would keep me company in my life as a single woman, and I suspect there's a great deal of truth in that.
The Deb's Kate-Winslet-look-alike friend suggested I use my little spiel about the sensuous nature of this instrument as a way to pick up girls. I can see her point; it might even be effective. But here's my thought on that: Learning to play and relate to this marvelous instrument -- a process that frustrates as much as it rewards right now -- feels like an expression of passion for my life, not a parlor trick to increase my viability in the dating scene.
As a gift I've given to myself, taking up the cello -- and reclaiming a childhood desire to learn an instrument -- seems a fitting way to remember an old friend no longer with us.
Life is fleeting. Going forward, I intend to make mine musical, as well.
I've only been at it for a week, but I'm taking great pleasure in learning this instrument. I have for the first time in my life learned to read some musical notes and am getting my first insights into the other funny stuff that shows up in music, such as how tempo is delineated.
All along, I thought reading music was some kind of outrageously hard thing to do -- like reading chinese characters or something -- and I'm surprised to find out this is not the case. My mother -- let's just call her Cruella going forward, shall we? -- was fairly persistent in shooing me away from music as a child. One of the things she told me was that I was not smart enough to learn how to read it. I don't know what that was all about, but the result is that I believed it must be outrageously hard to learn music, especially if you didn't learn it as a child.
And yet here I am, without any effort, a week into my little experiment with the cello, and I'm having no problem looking at a score and saying, "F-sharp, E, E, D, F-sharp, E, A." So that's been a surprise.
But nothing has prepared me for the surprise of how satisfying it is to hit a note on the cello itself. First, however, a little backstory:
It was nearly 10 years ago that I first picked up a cello. It belonged to Breanna, the daughter of my friend Lesha, who recently died. Breanna was 9 at the time, and she showed me how to sit, gave me a little instruction on holding the bow and then I took great pleasure for a few minutes in pulling the bow across the strings. I never forgot the feeling. Nor my desire to learn the instrument.
The day that Lesha died, I had stumbled across a violin repair shop here in town, and found myself looking longingly into the window at the instruments. I thought about Breanna's cello, and I wondered whether she was still playing. I also wondered, then, about how Lesha was doing, as it had been a long time since we'd been in touch.
The next day, I learned that Breanna, who graduated from high school last year, had found her mother dead in bed that morning, killed by having too big a heart. And though I'm not into mysticism, I found it curious that I had been thinking about Lesha and Breanna and the cello that very day, when it had been a while since I had thought of them.
Many years ago, I made a little promise to myself that when someone for whom I've cared deeply is "subtracted" from my life through death, I will find some way of remembering them by "adding" something enriching. The death of my brother turned into the motivation to attend graduate school and radically alter my life's work. The death of my aunt last year prompted me to accept an invitation to reconnect with some family members I've long cherished but with whom I'd been out of contact.
Lesha's death combined with a longing I've been experiencing more strongly in the past couple years: to learn a musical instrument. The process of such "adding" for me is a matter of immediacy; it's a recognition of the fleeting nature of life and a choice to do something about a desire rather than allowing it to stay latent. So, given how my thoughts had turned to the cello the very day of her death, I thought about it for two weeks or so and then made the call.
Last week, I had my first lesson. This past Friday, I played a rather plodding and off-key version of "Mary Had a Little Lamb" for some friends who came to dinner. There was, admist amused laughter, an encouraging round of applause. Several months hence, I hope to give a performance of something a little more erudite.
At one point, I found myself waxing philosophic with one of them -- The Debutante's friend who looks like Kate Winslet -- about the powerful sensation of playing this instrument. No doubt, part of it was the wine talking -- that would be the part where I equated the sensitivity of the instrument to that of the clitoris. But most of what I found myself saying was the truth.
I have picked up many instruments in my life and given them a novice's try. I have had countless interactions with guitars, even learning a couple chords and strum strumming away. I've had my moments with a coronet and a clarinet. There's my harmonica, on which my tied tongue prevents any real progress. And, naturally, there's been all sorts of drumming.
Never in any of these experiences have I felt so thoroughly captivated as I am by the cello. Even on the merits of how it is held -- between the thighs and up against the chest -- it is provocative. Sitting this way, with that resonating wood contacing my body, I feel each note vibrating through me from head to toe. When I hit a bad note, the cello lets me know in feeling just as much as in hearing. It's punishing enough to make me wince. But when I hit the right notes, it is rewarding beyond measure. (Really, it does make sense to compare it to the clitoris -- even when I'm not drunk.)
It is an instrument that begs to be touched and played. The sensuous curves of its body, the elegant stretch of its fingerboard, the artistic scroll atop. All of this speaks to the latent - though well-explored -- woodworker in me.
And its sound? Well, it's the most lovely of the strings, I think. Not so hop-along as the guitar, not so touchy and neurotic as the violin, not so weighty and imposing as the bass. You don't have to be Yo-Yo Ma to make it sing (but I'll bet it's FABULOUS to be Yo-Yo Ma playing the cello).
After my little performance Friday night, I did something I'm not supposed to do: I let my friends play my cello. (I'm not sure *why* I'm not supposed to do that, but I've been warned dutifully by all the books that it's a "bad" thing.) In my opinion, something so pleasurable is to be shared as much as possible. So I've happily let Dr. M, The Deb and S2 give it a go. They each had different reactions, but I think they all took away an understanding of what I was trying to tell them about the instrument's ability to move its player. Dr. M even told me the cello would keep me company in my life as a single woman, and I suspect there's a great deal of truth in that.
The Deb's Kate-Winslet-look-alike friend suggested I use my little spiel about the sensuous nature of this instrument as a way to pick up girls. I can see her point; it might even be effective. But here's my thought on that: Learning to play and relate to this marvelous instrument -- a process that frustrates as much as it rewards right now -- feels like an expression of passion for my life, not a parlor trick to increase my viability in the dating scene.
As a gift I've given to myself, taking up the cello -- and reclaiming a childhood desire to learn an instrument -- seems a fitting way to remember an old friend no longer with us.
Life is fleeting. Going forward, I intend to make mine musical, as well.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Heading into the Maranon Canyon
9:48 a.m. Aug. 19, Cajamarca, Peru
We are sitting in the offices of IN. GOD. WE. TRUST. Tourist agency in the Plaza de Armas. Two days ago, following a nice tour of Granja Porcon, we decide to throw our hat into IGWT's ring for a ride to Kuelap via the Maranon Valley, which is said to be deeper, wider and more spectacular than the Grand Canyon.
A combi arrived this morning at Posada del Puruay and picked us up around 5 a.m. We spent one and a half hours on a seriously bumpy dirt road on the way to Celendin and the canyon with something went wrong with the suspension of the combi. The driver announced we would have to turn around and return to Cajamarca. We rolled into town around 8 a.m. and were taken here from a mechanic's shop where the combi is being repaired.
UCM interrupts: A combi is essentially a combination between an SUV and a minivan. Also "IN. GOD. WE. TRUST." is the proper name of the company, including the curious punctuation marks.
In a short time, we are expecting to lunch the journey *again.* My tailbone is already hurting (as I feared it would), and there is a solid 14 hours or so of driving ahead of us.
It will be a test of perseverance. All I can say now is that the ride *back* in the combi was excruciatingly bumpy -- so it's good we turned around. I am hopeful that the repair will make the combi a little less jarring. However, I think the chances are pretty slim given the feel of the ride *before* the suspension broke.
Although we arranged for a private excursion, we have lots of company on this trip. The senora who owns IN. GOD. WE. TRUST. Travel agency sent her two daughters along as companions for us so we wouldn't be molested by the driver. The driver in turn brought his wife and daughter. So there are seven of us going on this journey today.
My only hope is that it doesn't turn into some Peruvian version of "Groundhog Day," in which the same sequence of events is played out over and over again.
We are sitting in the offices of IN. GOD. WE. TRUST. Tourist agency in the Plaza de Armas. Two days ago, following a nice tour of Granja Porcon, we decide to throw our hat into IGWT's ring for a ride to Kuelap via the Maranon Valley, which is said to be deeper, wider and more spectacular than the Grand Canyon.
A combi arrived this morning at Posada del Puruay and picked us up around 5 a.m. We spent one and a half hours on a seriously bumpy dirt road on the way to Celendin and the canyon with something went wrong with the suspension of the combi. The driver announced we would have to turn around and return to Cajamarca. We rolled into town around 8 a.m. and were taken here from a mechanic's shop where the combi is being repaired.
UCM interrupts: A combi is essentially a combination between an SUV and a minivan. Also "IN. GOD. WE. TRUST." is the proper name of the company, including the curious punctuation marks.
In a short time, we are expecting to lunch the journey *again.* My tailbone is already hurting (as I feared it would), and there is a solid 14 hours or so of driving ahead of us.
It will be a test of perseverance. All I can say now is that the ride *back* in the combi was excruciatingly bumpy -- so it's good we turned around. I am hopeful that the repair will make the combi a little less jarring. However, I think the chances are pretty slim given the feel of the ride *before* the suspension broke.
Although we arranged for a private excursion, we have lots of company on this trip. The senora who owns IN. GOD. WE. TRUST. Travel agency sent her two daughters along as companions for us so we wouldn't be molested by the driver. The driver in turn brought his wife and daughter. So there are seven of us going on this journey today.
My only hope is that it doesn't turn into some Peruvian version of "Groundhog Day," in which the same sequence of events is played out over and over again.
Monday, May 15, 2006
And I *still* don't have it!
Got my cello back from the shop today with brand new D & G strings. Cost me $37.
Sat down to practice this evening. C, D & G tune right up. My favorite of the open notes is G. It vibrates nicely in my body. Open C would be my next favorite, because it's so deep and resonates kind of like a fog horn.
But goddammit, wouldn't you know, I go to tune up A, and the thing is saying nothing but, "I'm E! I'm E! And I'm a little flat at that!" (And if a string could snicker, well, you know this one was doing that.)
I touch the peg. Just barely turn it. And POP! There goes another string! I called my teacher and asked what I was doing wrong. Apparently, those pegs are really super sensitive. She said, "Well, if you were getting E out of A, it probably should've broken already, it's that tight. But you probably also don't realize just how *little* you need to turn the peg."
Obviously not. Because I'm snapping 'em faster than they can put them on the cello. So, tomorrow, back in the shop I go. With any luck, they'll patch me up while I'm getting my hair done, and I'll actually be able to practice.
By the way, did I mention that my teacher is really *cute*?
Sat down to practice this evening. C, D & G tune right up. My favorite of the open notes is G. It vibrates nicely in my body. Open C would be my next favorite, because it's so deep and resonates kind of like a fog horn.
But goddammit, wouldn't you know, I go to tune up A, and the thing is saying nothing but, "I'm E! I'm E! And I'm a little flat at that!" (And if a string could snicker, well, you know this one was doing that.)
I touch the peg. Just barely turn it. And POP! There goes another string! I called my teacher and asked what I was doing wrong. Apparently, those pegs are really super sensitive. She said, "Well, if you were getting E out of A, it probably should've broken already, it's that tight. But you probably also don't realize just how *little* you need to turn the peg."
Obviously not. Because I'm snapping 'em faster than they can put them on the cello. So, tomorrow, back in the shop I go. With any luck, they'll patch me up while I'm getting my hair done, and I'll actually be able to practice.
By the way, did I mention that my teacher is really *cute*?
Saturday, May 13, 2006
One talent I do *not* have. Yet.
Tuning a cello.
How can I practice playing the cello when I break the strings while trying to tune it?
*sigh*
How can I practice playing the cello when I break the strings while trying to tune it?
*sigh*
Friday, May 12, 2006
Would *you* write a commercial for free?
Perhaps it's because I used to get paid for writing -- before I started letting the lot of you read my words for FREE -- that I find the latest MasterCard commercials so ... repugnant.
You know the routine: Something curious: costs this much; something routine: costs this much; something funny or weird: costs this much; something heart-rending and sentimental and connected to the previous three items? Priceless.
I have to give it to the copywriter who originated that whole ad campaign. It's highly effective, and it has seeped its way seemlessly into the lexicon. Its tagline is right up there with "Where's the Beef?" and "Just Do It." At times, most of us have uttered these words in humor or seriousness, echoing the work of some creative slag in an advertising sweatshop. (Not that Weiden+Kennedy is a sweatshop. They have the nicest offices in town.)
But I think it's an insidious -- and brilliant, in that evil sort of way -- form of advertising to get members of the public to write your ads for you. That's what the lastest MasterCard commercials are seeking. The newest ads say: "Blank and blank: $129. Blank: $72; Blank: $40. Blank and blank? Priceless."
Then, they exhort the rest of us to fill in the blanks, to write the ad, to submit our ideas to some Web site, whereupon they will run the winner's commercial.
Puh-LEAZE!
To MasterCard, I must say this:
It is our "responsibility" as consumers to sit passively and witness your commercials, to fall under the spell of something entertaining or sappy and sentimental that YOU create, to be persuaded somehow that using our MasterCard will ignite those feelings of entertainment or sappy sentimentality in *our lives,* and, consequently, to go buy some shit with the little piece of plastic that has your fucking logo on it. It is *not* our responsibility to participate directly in the creation of your devious little marketing campaigns.
Unless, that is, you are going to pay us a shitload of cash.
I'll make you a deal: You pay off my student loans, I'll write you a gem.
Otherwise, go fuck yourself.
-- Sincerely, UCM
You know the routine: Something curious: costs this much; something routine: costs this much; something funny or weird: costs this much; something heart-rending and sentimental and connected to the previous three items? Priceless.
I have to give it to the copywriter who originated that whole ad campaign. It's highly effective, and it has seeped its way seemlessly into the lexicon. Its tagline is right up there with "Where's the Beef?" and "Just Do It." At times, most of us have uttered these words in humor or seriousness, echoing the work of some creative slag in an advertising sweatshop. (Not that Weiden+Kennedy is a sweatshop. They have the nicest offices in town.)
But I think it's an insidious -- and brilliant, in that evil sort of way -- form of advertising to get members of the public to write your ads for you. That's what the lastest MasterCard commercials are seeking. The newest ads say: "Blank and blank: $129. Blank: $72; Blank: $40. Blank and blank? Priceless."
Then, they exhort the rest of us to fill in the blanks, to write the ad, to submit our ideas to some Web site, whereupon they will run the winner's commercial.
Puh-LEAZE!
To MasterCard, I must say this:
It is our "responsibility" as consumers to sit passively and witness your commercials, to fall under the spell of something entertaining or sappy and sentimental that YOU create, to be persuaded somehow that using our MasterCard will ignite those feelings of entertainment or sappy sentimentality in *our lives,* and, consequently, to go buy some shit with the little piece of plastic that has your fucking logo on it. It is *not* our responsibility to participate directly in the creation of your devious little marketing campaigns.
Unless, that is, you are going to pay us a shitload of cash.
I'll make you a deal: You pay off my student loans, I'll write you a gem.
Otherwise, go fuck yourself.
-- Sincerely, UCM
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Dat dawg don't dance!
I just found out that the dog I got in the d.i.v.o.r.c.e. is the one that *does not* dance.
Brogan is more beautiful than is reasonable in a full-grown dog, and as a friend noted on Sunday, charming parts of his personality are more pronounced than it was when the pup lived in the shadow of Harriet, a dominating female Westie.
But what I didn't know until just now is that Brogan doesn't dance, at least not without Harriet egging him on! I used to dance with both of the dogs. I'd crank up some music when I felt the urge to boogie, and the two of them would circle and jump and dance on their hind legs around me while I cut my own rug.
I put on the remix of Elvis' "A Little Less Conversation" and started to dance this afternoon. Brogan got up from his napping spot, and sauntered over. I thought he would start dancing with me. But he just stood there and watched.
And by "just stood there," I mean he stood on all fours and STARED at me. It was not one of those pleasant "might you feed me?" stares, either. It was a 100 percent "crazy bitch" stare.
Well, I could just be projecting, huh?
Even so, I tried to get him to dance with me, and he *still* just stood there and stared. Like some shy junior high kid on the sidelines at the school dance.
But damn, he's cute.
Brogan is more beautiful than is reasonable in a full-grown dog, and as a friend noted on Sunday, charming parts of his personality are more pronounced than it was when the pup lived in the shadow of Harriet, a dominating female Westie.
But what I didn't know until just now is that Brogan doesn't dance, at least not without Harriet egging him on! I used to dance with both of the dogs. I'd crank up some music when I felt the urge to boogie, and the two of them would circle and jump and dance on their hind legs around me while I cut my own rug.
I put on the remix of Elvis' "A Little Less Conversation" and started to dance this afternoon. Brogan got up from his napping spot, and sauntered over. I thought he would start dancing with me. But he just stood there and watched.
And by "just stood there," I mean he stood on all fours and STARED at me. It was not one of those pleasant "might you feed me?" stares, either. It was a 100 percent "crazy bitch" stare.
Well, I could just be projecting, huh?
Even so, I tried to get him to dance with me, and he *still* just stood there and stared. Like some shy junior high kid on the sidelines at the school dance.
But damn, he's cute.
Monday, May 08, 2006
A sex fiend confronts my blissful ignorance
I've always liked writing headlines.
But, as you may recall, I'm not paying attention to the news these days. Nevertheless, I'm finding Letterman's monologues an indispensable source of information -- just enough to make me laugh and to actually know a little bit of what's going on in the world.
That's why I wasn't totally caught off guard when JellyGirl told me this morning that she's turned into a total sex fiend and has been mauling her husband in bed night after night lately. But that she only actually recalls doing so ONCE in the last 10 times -- there having been 10 times in the past two weeks. And she's been married for 13 years. "I would've told any of my friends you're full of shit," she told me. "No one has sex that much with their husband in a two-week period."
There's an explanation for all of this, which I learned about from Letterman a few weeks ago. It's that darn Ambien. Apparently, some people -- and fortunately, I'm not one of them -- have bouts of sleep eating when they take Ambien. They wake up, and their bed is littered with candy wrappers, or, worse, empty packages of bacon (and nothing's been cooked!). I checked this out with a few sources, other than Letterman, and sure enough...
JellyGirl has been taking the Ambien CR, and it's been turning her into a wild woman. "About 30 minutes after taking my nightly Ambien, I become a sex addict," she said. "I guess after 13 years of marriage, I can't get enough of my husband."
He doesn't seem to be complaining. But he does say it freaks him out at times because JellyGirl is acting completely normal when she comes onto him. "We hold entire conversations, and sometimes I read my book afterward," she said. "He has said he can't tell when I've taken the meds and when I have not."
You know, the more I'm thinking about it, the more I think I should find me a gal who's got that Ambien sex attack "problem." Unlike JellyGirl, pregnancy is not a risk factor with the likes of me. There would just be the sleep deprivation that comes from being kept up at night by someone with an insatiable sexual appetite. Would that be a case of her taking advantage of me, or me taking advantage of her? Hmmm. ... Well, I'd probably get tendonitis.
But I digress.
The freaky problem, of course, is that JellyGirl doesn't remember the sex. This used to bother her husband, too, but he's gotten used to it. And althought JG has called the situation "scary," she does not seem inclined to stop taking the pills. She's got terrible problems with insomnia. Probably, the sex makes her sleep better anyway. (A good orgasm, in my experience, correlates to a better night's sleep.)
But she did note that she and the hubby may be seeking my skills as a marriage counselor when she stops taking them.
On a separate note: S2 has been lobbying -- in a mild-mannered kind of way -- to get me to switch to the MFT program. It seems I'm "naturally systemic," according to one of my professors. (Sounds like a birth defect to me.) And S2 thinks there's nothing quite like a "wounded healer" to go messing around in family dynamics, thus making me a natural in spades. I suppose there would be nothing wrong with going MFT *and* LPC. Hmm. Thoughts, anyone?
But, as you may recall, I'm not paying attention to the news these days. Nevertheless, I'm finding Letterman's monologues an indispensable source of information -- just enough to make me laugh and to actually know a little bit of what's going on in the world.
That's why I wasn't totally caught off guard when JellyGirl told me this morning that she's turned into a total sex fiend and has been mauling her husband in bed night after night lately. But that she only actually recalls doing so ONCE in the last 10 times -- there having been 10 times in the past two weeks. And she's been married for 13 years. "I would've told any of my friends you're full of shit," she told me. "No one has sex that much with their husband in a two-week period."
There's an explanation for all of this, which I learned about from Letterman a few weeks ago. It's that darn Ambien. Apparently, some people -- and fortunately, I'm not one of them -- have bouts of sleep eating when they take Ambien. They wake up, and their bed is littered with candy wrappers, or, worse, empty packages of bacon (and nothing's been cooked!). I checked this out with a few sources, other than Letterman, and sure enough...
JellyGirl has been taking the Ambien CR, and it's been turning her into a wild woman. "About 30 minutes after taking my nightly Ambien, I become a sex addict," she said. "I guess after 13 years of marriage, I can't get enough of my husband."
He doesn't seem to be complaining. But he does say it freaks him out at times because JellyGirl is acting completely normal when she comes onto him. "We hold entire conversations, and sometimes I read my book afterward," she said. "He has said he can't tell when I've taken the meds and when I have not."
You know, the more I'm thinking about it, the more I think I should find me a gal who's got that Ambien sex attack "problem." Unlike JellyGirl, pregnancy is not a risk factor with the likes of me. There would just be the sleep deprivation that comes from being kept up at night by someone with an insatiable sexual appetite. Would that be a case of her taking advantage of me, or me taking advantage of her? Hmmm. ... Well, I'd probably get tendonitis.
But I digress.
The freaky problem, of course, is that JellyGirl doesn't remember the sex. This used to bother her husband, too, but he's gotten used to it. And althought JG has called the situation "scary," she does not seem inclined to stop taking the pills. She's got terrible problems with insomnia. Probably, the sex makes her sleep better anyway. (A good orgasm, in my experience, correlates to a better night's sleep.)
But she did note that she and the hubby may be seeking my skills as a marriage counselor when she stops taking them.
On a separate note: S2 has been lobbying -- in a mild-mannered kind of way -- to get me to switch to the MFT program. It seems I'm "naturally systemic," according to one of my professors. (Sounds like a birth defect to me.) And S2 thinks there's nothing quite like a "wounded healer" to go messing around in family dynamics, thus making me a natural in spades. I suppose there would be nothing wrong with going MFT *and* LPC. Hmm. Thoughts, anyone?
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Move over, Caprial...
OK, so Alice Waters I ain't. (Not yet, anyway.)
But check this shit out: Your intrepid cook-o-phobic took some inspiration from that poached salmon and from that wild and whacky first-time-ever experience of buying a hairbrush, and decided to go for something altogether new and foodie.
I made my own soup from scratch.
Now, I know soup is the most basic of human culinary achievements. People have made soup out of leather and twigs and spoiled meat since they figured out how to boil water. It's hardly an accomplishment for a fancy chef, so Caprial will probably bust my chops for telling her to scoot on over and make some room at the stove, honey.
But given that I've taken no shame in reporting my *multitudes* of culinary failures over the years -- and actually reached a point in my life where I hired a woman to cook for me and then for six years lived with XGF, who was trained to be a professional chef but lavished those talents on our home and nowhere else -- I figure it's only right to give myself a bit phat public pat on the back here.
I made a pea, spinach & leek soup with coconut milk and curry, a recipe that actually required me to puree the stuff in a blender. (Why the blender "explodes" is beyond me -- it made a mess of the kitchen -- but I think it was worth it.)
It was nice and satisfyingly creamy, even though the only fat is a tablespoon of butter and a can of coconut milk (it was supposed to be a half can, but I love coconut, so I *improvised* and the shit actually worked out, even if it is a bit more fatty). But considering my dairy allergy, I'm thinking that coconut milk beats half-n-half hands down on the creamy factor. And ... mmm... do I ever love coconut. Give me anything coconut, and I will sit like a happy buddha with it.
So I chopped all these veggies. I sizzled things. I simmered things. I boiled things. And then I pureed the stuff. Then, I salted and peppered it to taste. My only "shortcoming" was that I didn't shuck fresh peas and I snuck in the frozen ones when no one was looking. (That there was no one else here to see it did not stop me from *sneaking* those frozen peas in anyway. Picture that nonsense, if you will.)
But the fact of there being no one here to have witnessed this soup creation of mine -- thus, no one to consume it but me -- does pose a little problem. After I started the recipe, I noticed it serves six. Ooops. Either I'm going to be eating this soup until the cows come home (which they do *not* do in this part of town, I've noticed), or I'm gonna have to find someone to share it with.
As I was finishing this delightful dish and seasoning it to taste, I was thinking of Lilly Tomlin's old "Search for Intelligent Life" routine: " 'Is it art yet?' 'No, it's still soup.' " Soon enough, my friends, it *will* be art.
But check this shit out: Your intrepid cook-o-phobic took some inspiration from that poached salmon and from that wild and whacky first-time-ever experience of buying a hairbrush, and decided to go for something altogether new and foodie.
I made my own soup from scratch.
Now, I know soup is the most basic of human culinary achievements. People have made soup out of leather and twigs and spoiled meat since they figured out how to boil water. It's hardly an accomplishment for a fancy chef, so Caprial will probably bust my chops for telling her to scoot on over and make some room at the stove, honey.
But given that I've taken no shame in reporting my *multitudes* of culinary failures over the years -- and actually reached a point in my life where I hired a woman to cook for me and then for six years lived with XGF, who was trained to be a professional chef but lavished those talents on our home and nowhere else -- I figure it's only right to give myself a bit phat public pat on the back here.
I made a pea, spinach & leek soup with coconut milk and curry, a recipe that actually required me to puree the stuff in a blender. (Why the blender "explodes" is beyond me -- it made a mess of the kitchen -- but I think it was worth it.)
It was nice and satisfyingly creamy, even though the only fat is a tablespoon of butter and a can of coconut milk (it was supposed to be a half can, but I love coconut, so I *improvised* and the shit actually worked out, even if it is a bit more fatty). But considering my dairy allergy, I'm thinking that coconut milk beats half-n-half hands down on the creamy factor. And ... mmm... do I ever love coconut. Give me anything coconut, and I will sit like a happy buddha with it.
So I chopped all these veggies. I sizzled things. I simmered things. I boiled things. And then I pureed the stuff. Then, I salted and peppered it to taste. My only "shortcoming" was that I didn't shuck fresh peas and I snuck in the frozen ones when no one was looking. (That there was no one else here to see it did not stop me from *sneaking* those frozen peas in anyway. Picture that nonsense, if you will.)
But the fact of there being no one here to have witnessed this soup creation of mine -- thus, no one to consume it but me -- does pose a little problem. After I started the recipe, I noticed it serves six. Ooops. Either I'm going to be eating this soup until the cows come home (which they do *not* do in this part of town, I've noticed), or I'm gonna have to find someone to share it with.
As I was finishing this delightful dish and seasoning it to taste, I was thinking of Lilly Tomlin's old "Search for Intelligent Life" routine: " 'Is it art yet?' 'No, it's still soup.' " Soon enough, my friends, it *will* be art.
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